


Killing The Past

by Compendium_Of_Steve



Category: Enter the Gungeon (Video Game), Night In The Woods (Video Game)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Aftermath of Violence, Angst, Cancer, Domestic Violence, Eldritch, Epic Battles, Girls with Guns, Guns, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Minor Character Death, Music, Musical References, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Redemption, Swearing, Time Travel, Tragedy, Violence, Wrestling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:54:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23178802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Compendium_Of_Steve/pseuds/Compendium_Of_Steve
Summary: So there's apparently a weapon that can change one's past. Certainly an enticing prospect for a group of troubled friends in a dying town. But which of them would be crazy enough to see if such a thing actually exists? And what exactly would they change if given the chance?
Relationships: Angus Delaney/Greggory Lee
Kudos: 25





	1. Prologue

_You may have heard the legend of the forsaken fortress situated on a far-off, backwater planet. About how the heavens parted and brought judgment in the form of a gargantuan bullet, leaving tremendous ruin. And undoubtedly you also know of the treasure buried there: a Gun That Can Kill The Past. A weapon whose very existence had raised a secretive but formidable cult to defend it from the countless droves of forlorn and desperate plunderers that sought to make what was done, undone._

_A tale like that has a way of spreading far and wide in a galaxy filled with no end of regret. But what you didn't know was that it's enticing enough to cross dimensions as well, which is how it reached the sleepy rumor mill of a dying town within a region not too dissimilar from that of the American Rust Belt. Like any rumor it's passed off as nonsense to practical thinkers, or mulled over briefly by the bored younger crowd. However, it reached the ears of a group of friends who would do more than simply ponder or dismiss._

_They had regrets like anyone else. Only difference: they had the capacity to seek whatever means there were that could correct them. Question was, which of them would actually follow this tale to its source? Who among them has the resolve to…_

#  [ **ENTER THE GUNGEON** ](https://youtu.be/xZzWiFjsbM0?t=65)

(Now devote two minutes to boppin' to the bumpin' title music)


	2. The Slugger

A few more steps. Just a few more and she'll finally be done with all this. But those steps might as well be a sharp rocky incline with how worn out she was.

"Effing hell. Why couldn't they have put it right behind that bullet shower?"

Fatigue had set in shortly after she arrived in the trippy cosmic inner vault of the Gungeon. A weariness she couldn't stave off any longer even if she tried; not even the high of finally overcoming the High Dragun could energize her. But it was a hard-won, well-deserved victory nevertheless. Left her pretty bloodied, but those scrapes were nothing compared to the dents she made in that beast, as well as all the other Gundead she faced, with her trusty batting partner... which was a bat.

Quite the absurd find in an ever-changing labyrinth famed for its loads and loads of firearms, which themselves could easily be just as absurd if not more. But Mae was always finicky with guns or anything gun-related. Perhaps too small to effectively handle them, even after all the time she spent diving into these god-forsaken depths. So imagine her surprise at finding a cursed bat that not only was good at walloping fools, but could also _reflect_ bullets. Needless to say she was deadly proficient with the thing, and made a literal killing all the way down to the Forge. Certainly made bashing in that stupid dragon's heart all the more satisfying. Rather ironic that it shared the same name as one of her old friends. Or was ironic the right word? Either way, it gave her comfort knowing that, though gone, Casey still watched her back. And front. And pretty much her entire horizontal plane.

These reflections came to an immediate stop as the battered cat ascended the final step and saw it: an ornate red chest at the end of a long platform. Dropping her bat, she bolstered the energy needed to move her scrawny legs toward the treasure. Her paws went onto the lid the moment she got there. No guards, not even locked.

"Oh god. This, this is it."

She wasted no time in pushing the covering until it fell off with an ancient groan. Her arms went up to block the flare of light that shot out of the box, but as her eyes adjusted she looked in time to see her prize rise up into the air like a misshapen star of wonderment. A hefty-looking revolver, with a very long barrel bent up and backwards so that it pointed right back at whoever held it. After doing a little midair spin it gently floated down into Mae's grubby mitts. In mere seconds and with hardly any ceremony, Mae Borowski found herself the proud possessor of the very Gun That Can Kill The Past.

"Huh. I was expecting something a little more… mystical? Something with a little more flash." She tumbled it between her paws to examine it some more. "So I have to shoot myself with it? Makes sense, I guess. Probably saves them having to leave a note with instructions given how it's built; can't think of anything more self-explanatory. Now I kinda wonder how they tested this to begin with to see if it actually worked."

You'd think she'd be a lot more exhilarated with finally attaining a relic capable of rewriting one's history. She certainly had been at the very start, after she found that old guy who first spoke the legend in town and brought her to the Breach. And there was some manic glee in indiscriminately gunning down those adorable walking bullets and blowing up all kinds of shit the first thirty or so trips through the Gungeon.

But the repeated attempts, failures, deaths, and retries had worn out her enthusiasm long ago. Perhaps hundreds of hours ago for all she knew. Hours spent flipping tables, rolling through barrels, getting cursed, wasting shells on Ace's shooting game, and dying _constantly_ to so many things: traps, Gun Nuts, Bulletkin, that dodgy Ammoconda, Lead Maidens, those stupid bubble-spewing frogs, Shelletons, the Kill Pillars, the Wall Mongerer, and far too many times getting ganked by to those annoying-as-ass Gun Fairies.

So yeah, after so much frustration and agony, one's enthusiasm would be _sufficiently_ lowered, even when holding something very few could ever hope to behold. But she _did_ remember one critical step.

"Enough screwing around. Let's load you up."

Mae withdrew a single bullet from her Item space and put it into the chamber. It was extraordinarily lucky that upon finding the Blacksmith's shop, she not only learned that the gun needed special ammo to properly work, but that there was a surplus of these special bullets being handed out for free to anyone who made it that far. Sure would've sucked to have come here only to have no way of actually using the dang thing. A rare instance of preparedness on Mae's part, she reflected as she clicked the cylinder back in place.

"Alright, Mae," she psyched herself after taking a steadying breath. "Time to do this."

She raised the gun and pointed it to the side of her head, but stopped upon feeling the smooth edge of the upended barrel. "Oh, right. Not like that." She held the gun before her, momentarily confused as to how to handle it. "God why did they have to make it so ass-backwards?" After fumbling for a bit she finally held it as one normally holds a pistol. With the barrel of the gun looking right at the spot between her eyes, Mae could feel the Crosshairs of Time focusing on her.

Furrowing her brows, she concentrated by uttering the time-worn prayer of, "Hope this works."

Her stubby paw digit pressed down the trigger, and reality shook around her a few scant seconds before the gun fired. To the sound of shattering glass her vision exploded into a cascade of colors, intermixed with the scent of arcane gunpowder. Thus Mae was thrown backwards in bullet time and space, her little body tumbling to that most pivotal turning point. Where it went all wrong.

_EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE_

_Enter the Gun-geon! (Enter the Gun!)_

* * *

Generating…

* * *

**Softball Field**

**The Past (6 years prior)**

Mae's eyes snapped open to the sound of cheers and the fading "plink" of aluminum on leather. First thing she discovered was she was no longer in the cosmic void, or even in the moldy confines of the Gungeon, as evidenced by the bright natural lighting and waft of mildly warm fresh air. She then noticed that she was sitting on the worn bench of a crappy dug-out, and that she wasn't alone.

"Hey, you in there, Mae?"

"Huh, bluh-wuh?"

She looked to her left and saw the annoyed look of Clarissa Reynolds, a stork who was one of her classmates from freshman year, wearing a familiar softball uniform. Hold on, uniform? Freshman year? Wait, no way…

"I said are you awake?"

"Uhhh yeah, sure, Clare. Just, you know, bored. Getting a bit antsy."

"Keep your head in the game, Mae. Rog just got to second."

It didn't take Mae any time at all to put it together. She was back in Possum Springs, fourteen years old, playing softball. That gun didn't kill her past: it just sent her back in time. What a jip!

Before she could curse and lament some more, the sound of an announcer's voice rang out, "Wonderful swing right there from Roger! Now up next to bat: Mae Borowski."

"Stay focused and hit it far," Clare urged, patting the feline's shoulder encouragingly. Seeing the other players on her team look to her, Mae shrugged and got off the bench, putting on her helmet before leaving the cover of the dugout.

Brilliant springtime sunshine, nary a cloud in the sky. She looked to that bright blue while instinctively grabbing a bat on her way to the batter's box, the modest crowd on the outer stands clapping over her approach. Her parents among them.

"Wooo! Knock 'em dead, Mae!"

Gregg as well? Of course; he always came to see her games, awesome guy that he was/still is. But that cheer in particular brought up a greater sense of deja vu that had begun with Clare's words, further compounded once she got a good look at the bat she was holding. Familiar weight, color, grip. Looking out to the field it all came full circle in her head upon seeing who was pitching: Andy Cullen.

This was no regular softball game from her younger days. This was _the_ softball game.

_What the heck is going on?_ Her frazzled mind whirred. _This is moments before the "incident". Before I ran out there and beat Andy's face in. But I know it's gonna happen, so then… A do-over, of course! I'm getting a chance to_ fix _things myself! Boy I really wished they mentioned that somewhere. Would've saved me the minor freak out. Although I'm still totally freaking out. No, can't think like that. Focus!_

As her thoughts wrestled and tumbled over and around themselves, young Mae had walked right up to plate. Mentally slapping herself back into the present(?), she observed the field around her, the other players, Andy waiting for her to get ready. She gave her neck and shoulders a quick loosening-up.

_Okay, plan. It's real simple, Mae: just get through this game without losing your chill. Better yet, strike out. Gets you out of the game quicker, so nobody has to take a bat to their face._ A cocksure grin formed on her feline lips. _You totally got this_.

This confidence in mind, Mae eased herself into batting position, signalling Andy to do his worst. But as he was stepping up to make the pitch, she noticed the edge of his arms becoming fuzzy.

_Huh?_

This peculiar fuzziness spread over the rest of his body, then to Mae's horror she witnessed his eyes, mouth, his entire face dissolve into a smattering of disjointed colors. His entire body steadily lost definition, becoming a floating pile of mismatched squares and rectangles.

_Oh no, oh no no no. It's, it's happening again._

As Andy became a skittery blob of sharp edges, Mae's sight became unfocused and her chest tightened. All sound became distorted, save for her own ragged breathing. Anxiety crawled its way over the fringes of her mind, coating her thoughts with fear and anger. It was getting hotter. She was getting dizzy.

_It's exactly like before. He's, losing all meaning. It's… It's…_

**(Keep it together!)**

(Shapes. Just empty shapes.)

Mae screwed her eyes shut, slowed down and took deep breaths.

_Nothing's wrong. This is just temporary. It'll pass, Mae. Stay cool._

In a startling moment of personal serenity, Mae let go of her worries and stood as she was, unmindful of the world around her. She stayed that way for several seconds, and feeling confident she was still firmly rooted to the ground, she slowly reopened her eyes. However, she was greeted by a new sight of unpleasantness, for the very fabric of reality started wigging out all around the field before everything darkened and the air took on a sickly, heavy feel.

In the spot where the facade of Andy stood, a spot of blackness appeared and grew, spreading out and spilling over the blocks of green and brown that made up the playing field.

_What the hell is all this?_

From out of this frothing inkwell (as in a literal well spilling ink) there sprouted something nigh indescribable to mortal sight and reasoning. But if Mae had to harbor a guess, it had horns, stretchy claws, and roiling red eyes at least. As the abomination's growing presence continued to distort everything around it, revealing glimpses of cosmic abysses, memories of a damp and eerie mine flashed through the kitty's mind.

"You..!"

[ **SINGER IN THE DARK** ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1LUUQ4c7Wdk)

**BLACK GOAT**

Seemingly recognizing her as well, the creature from beyond the stars let out a string of tortured bleats and screeches that would drive sane mortals hopelessly mad. But it wasn't horror or insanity that was filling up Mae at that moment.

"Did you have something to do with that day? Your cult wasn't enough, so you're trying to mess with _me_ , is that it?"

The Old One growl-bleated curiously, whether by the cat's words or her refusal to become a foaming wreck before its very presence. Said cat was fuming over this newly-realized implication, raising up her inexplicably reacquired Casey bat. No use questioning a gift horse in the mouth (or something), she thought while swinging her weapon a few times before staring down the inky freak.

"Whatever the case, you made a _huge_ mistake showing yourself."

And with that, she charged the creature with bat raised. The Black Goat pulled back its spade-shaped head before vomiting out a wave of… bullets? Big red round moderately fast bullets, like the ones Mae faced constantly in the Gungeon. And just like in the Gungeon, her first instinct was to leap over the projectiles, landing and rolling back up into a run that got her up close to the murky monstrosity. Without hesitation she swung at the beast and smashed its front, eliciting an unearthly groan from it before she followed up with a second bash.

Of course the Goat wasn't going to take a third straight hit, and quickly evaporated itself into the dismal antispace it had produced earlier. Mae stood tense and confounded only a moment before the soft shrieks of a dying star system alerted her to her quarry's reappearance somewhere far to her right. Undeterred, Mae went running toward it, while its eyes shone to signal the arrival of a round of bullet bursts.

The little batter took to sidestepping the incoming fire, but when it got to be a little too thick, she charged up her Casey and swung at an oncoming cluster, smacking it away and right into their summoner! The Arkham Abomination gurgled at this sudden turnaround and retreated into the ether once more. It wasn't long before it appeared a little ways ahead, where it began chanting a verse from the cosmos. From the astral field surrounding Mae there arose remnants of a mining operation: pickaxes, shovels, sledgehammers, minecarts, all encased in a ghastly aura before being flung at her. She proved too nimble to be hit by this particular attack and continued closing the distance between her and the Elder God to deliver a few more cracks of her bat. But instead of running away it instead pulled back a misshapen limb and swiped directly at its attacker, knocking her a good ways from it.

Mae grunted upon banging against a star cluster, but quickly found her feet and pulled herself together. That swipe certainly stung, and it left a searing mark on her chest. She shrugged it off, nevertheless.

"Gonna take more than that to put me down."

The eldritch horror shot out its two billowing arms and began firing a mad whirlwind of bullets. Mae charged forward, batting back whatever bullets got too close and weaving through the rest, reaching the dire Goat and giving it a few more hefty whacks. The monster screeched and snapped up its neck, causing everything to blink into nothingness for a sec before Mae wound up falling onto the luminescent disc of the new moon high above. On her feet once more, she looked up to stare down at the Black Goat as it conjured up an undulating landscape of nightmares that produced—you guessed it—more bullets.

Mae leapt to the challenge and ran/fell through the tormented memories of Possum Spring's past, bypassing and batting the bullets that got between her and what could tentatively be considered the "ground" in that starry chasm. She bounded off buildings and hills, adjusting to the wonky gravity to great effect by the time the Goat decided to fire off a seething laser in her direction. Mae flipped around it and plummeted directly toward the beast's head, and once in range she wound up for the homer and brought her anger down upon its otherworldly skull.

Everything faded to white momentarily, and once color returned Mae found herself standing before the writhing Great One, which seemed to be shrinking away as it screeched and clawed about in agony. This was quite surprising to her; given what it was, it had gone down quicker than the Cannonbalrog. Hell, it went down quicker than the Gorgun!

"Grandad's book said you things couldn't be defeated, but I guess I proved it wrong!" Raising her bat in victory, she jeered, "Suck it you freak! Get back in your hole and stay out of my head if you know what's good for ya!"

The Miskatonic Menace stopped its death rattle and began murmuring in a language that no mortal tongue could rightly produce, or even poorly mimic.

"I still can't understand a word you're saying, guy."

# " _ **Fool!"**_

"Gwah, what the hell?!"

The shout rang out in Mae's head like a gunshot in a cement mixer, and she barely had time to deal with the pain before it continued.

# " _ **Labeling I as the source of your woes and failures, when I merely aggravate what is already there! Mine influence is but the spores that settle into the pre-existing cracks of cognition. I sing only to the weary, the hopeless, the defective. Theirs are the ears that can decipher my hymn."**_

"Wha, what? What are you—GUH!"

A ringing in her ears rose from a whisper to a scream, eroding her thoughts and sense of balance. Yet through her wavering sight, she managed to see the Black Goat point a condemning claw her way.

# " _ **Know this, child: You are broken. You shall forever remain broken, no matter how much you rave against it. Disenchantment will always be your lot."**_

The Goat fizzled away into nothingness, as did everything else as Mae collapsed and blanked out.

* * *

When Mae came to, she found herself lying on the dirt by the batter's plate, the blue sky blazing down on her without a care in the world. A contrast to the frightened looks of her parents and Gregg, who were either standing or kneeling down by her prone form.

"Mae! Mae, talk to us, kitten!" her father pleaded, showing distress so unbecoming of his normally chill character. Which in itself legitimately upset her past her disorientation.

"Please sweetie, say something!" her mother also begged.

"Uggghhh," was Mae's assuring response. It brought some relief to her parents' faces, but hadn't wiped away the concern. "Mom? Dad?"

"Oh thank God, you're okay!" Mae's mother let out a shaky sigh while holding a paw to her chest. "Are you okay, honey?"

"Uhhh. Yeah, I am," she said groggily. "What's going on?"

"You just passed out!" her vulpine pal Gregg yelled. "Everyone's freaking out. I think someone's calling for an ambulance."

"No. No ambulances. I'm, I'm fine."

"Are you sure, Mae?" her father asked.

"Yeah Dad. I'm just, woozy, is all."

"We'll take you home, Mae. And see about having Dr. Hank come look at you."

"Home sounds nice, Mom." Mae's glazed look turned to the crisp spring sky. "Sounds real nice."

"Want me to come too, Mae?"

"You don't have to, Gregg."

"No, he can come, Mom. If he wants."

"Oh. Alright then, honey."

"Are you sure you're feeling okay, Mae?"

"Yeah. In fact… Never better."

In those moments of talking with her parents, Mae concluded that she must've passed out before Andy got a chance to pitch. Would explain why he wasn't beneath her bleeding all over the grass. Meaning she succeeded: she prevented the "incident". No school suspension; no bad reputation; no financial repercussions for her parents; the house won't be at risk. Another chance to make high school, her life in general, suck considerably less.

She had no idea what was up with that "confrontation" with the Black Goat. Maybe a hallucination brought on by her narrowly-avoided freakout. But it did remind her that there was that murder cult still in town, making sacrifices. She might be able to do something about them, or at the very least find a way to save Casey. Probably would be a good idea to make up with Bea and be there for her when shit goes down in her life. And also talk to her parents about seeing a shrink. Maybe reconsider college. Definitely avert the prom disaster.

So many new opportunities to consider. But for now, Mae was gonna settle for some rest. After everything she'd been through, a break was long overdue, she felt.

* * *

**Thanks for playing!**

**You killed the past. The Gungeon remains...**


	3. The Greaser

In the violet-hued starry void of the inner vault, great stone effigies that paid remembrance to bullets long past bobbed serenely to the slow rhythm of the universe. But their calm motions had no effect on the bouncy inclinations of the new arrival who hopped gleefully from one pillar to the next.

"Hoo yeah! Total victory, baby! Aw man I'm just so _pumped_!"

Only after landing on the long side of a stone bullet did the ginger fox in the sick leather jacket open his eyes and take in his surroundings. Bullet casings of all kinds soared over him like vapor trails, and there were some clocks and half-loaded gun chambers floating around for some reason.

"Whoa, this is like, really trippy. How'd I wind up in space?"

But his twitchy attention span was immediately snagged by the set of stairs that led up to more stairs and even more stairs that finally ended a few stories up, where his ultimate prize undoubtedly waited.

"Guess there's only one more mountain to climb." Hefting up his shotbow, the fox cried "To Valhalla!" before sprinting for the first set of stairs.

It really had been a wild time for Gregg. Unlike most gungeoneers who had their excitement squashed after just a few runs through the Gungeon, the troublemaker seemed to only get more invigorated with every retry. He took to every descent with gusto, dodge-rolling constantly even when there weren't any bullets to avoid, and he met every enemy with a crazed smile, a battle cry and a popping of bullets. Whether it was because he had a screw loose or he was naturally inclined to put ludicrous amounts of energy into everything he did, none could say for certain. His enthusiasm even began to frighten the Gundead in the first three chambers to the point where they started making inquiries on how to boot him from the Gungeon without the use of the sacred Gun, though such a thing was impossible.

But luckily for both them and him, it took Gregg under twenty attempts to get to the Forge, slay the Dragun, and enter the inner vault. Mostly thanks to his blazing determination, but also in part thanks to his skill with the crossbow. Oh man, it was practically crossbow heaven for the fox. Even though the selection was small compared to other weapon types, he still got the most out of the traditional crossbow, the triple crossbow, and especially the crescent crossbow (pew pew!). Nothing quite as satisfying as sniping and one-shot killing Bullet Kin, Gunjurers, those walking grenades, Dets, and especially those noob sniper bullets. And he couldn't have hoped for a better finisher than by blasting a ton of arrows into the Dragun's heart at point-blank. Ka-POW! Overkill!

In no time Gregg made it to the summit and skidded to a halt before the red and gold chest at the other end.

"Woo! King of the Mountain! Now to take that trophy."

He shoved the covering off and stared eagerly, bouncing in place while the coveted Gun That Can Kill The Past floated up and materialized into a cool gunmetal gray. He snatched it from the air the moment it got within reach.

"Score! Heheh!" He stared at it for a few moments, particularly eying the curved barrel. "Pretty nice, pretty nice. Definitely the kind of thing that could kill someone's past by the look of it. Though something like a rifle would be cooler. Better yet, an anti-tank rifle. 50 cal, yeah."

It had certainly been one weird rumor the first time he heard it with the others, he had to admit. The kind of lame urban legend middle-schoolers or some cruddy writer would make up; pretty dumb even by his standards. But what a surprise when he discovered that pursuing this legend meant plunging into a wicked-ass shooting gallery! Had he known this beforehand, he would have come running for the Breach alone rather than tailing after Mae.

Personally, Gregg had no _serious_ grievances with his past like his feline friend had. He just wanted to pop some fools, make big-ass explosions, and have a hell of a time doing it before going back home. A sort of vacation to vent his destructive tendencies. But since he'd already come so far, he may as well reap the rewards. And there was _one_ thing he wouldn't mind undoing.

"Welp, let's see what this bad boy can do." Dropping his shotbow, Gregg reached into his jacket and pulled out the special Bullet, which he quickly loaded into the Gun. Cocking it before him, he hyped himself up while holding down the trigger, rattling alongside reality itself as the Crosshairs focused. "Let's Rock!"

In a dimension-shattering blast the hyper fox went falling through the years in a vortex of colors. Rewinding to one specific moment of shame and regret.

_EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE_

_Enter the Gun-geon! (Enter the Gun!)_

* * *

Generating…

* * *

**Lee Sheep Farm**

**The Past (12 Years Prior)**

In an instant Gregg found himself standing on solid ground, bringing an abrupt end to his wild space tumble.

"WAAAAAH! Whoa, talk about a head trip. Where am I?"

It was late afternoon wherever he was, if the sun was any indication. Hold the phone, he was back outside! And the line of trees in the distance, and the mud under his feet, and the wooden fencing next to him were extremely familiar. The heady stink of farm animals that filled the air confirmed it.

"No way, it's my uncle's farm. That's the pen, and the rest of the farm, exactly as I remembered it." He held up his arms and saw they were quite diminished. "Holy Crap I'm eight years old again! AAAAAAAAGGHH!"

Gregg noodled his arms wildly in shock, excitement and disbelief over this realization. But he put a hold on his freak-out to consider things.

"That means it worked! I can keep it from happening!"

With elation he looked to the sheep pen that was next to him, only to find it missing a fair number of sheep. The swinging gate close by was a damn good indicator as to why.

"Dammit, I had already let them out!? Why didn't that gun send me to _before_ I opened the gate? Lousy piece of shit! What the hell do I do now?"

**(Save those stupid sheep, duh!)**

(Keep noodling! AAAAAAGH!)

"No no no no, gotta relax. I can still fix this."

As if to affirm that belief, a not-so-distant "baahh" rang out from the direction of the treeline that marked the edge of the farm. Looking there, he spotted some blobs of white fluff bounding off into the forest.

"But I gotta hurry!"

He started to take off, but stopped when his gaze fell upon a curious object that had gone unnoticed up till then: a wooden crossbow, lying rather conspicuously on the ground close by. Picking it up, it struck him as looking very similar to the same kind of slick crossbow he used in the Gungeon. It even had a similar aiming scope jammed onto it.

"Definitely don't remember this being here."

This oddity was quickly shrugged off as a plan formed in his little fox skull, all while his little fox feet got him running in the direction of the woods. It took him less than a minute to clear the field and get among the trees, but he wasn't following directly after the runaway sheep like the first time around. Instead of catching up, his primary focus was on getting through the forest as fast as possible, a little ways to the right from where they ran.

His littler physique made traversing the foliage quite swift, and in no time he made it to the hillcrest that looked down onto the interstate below. Cars of all kinds going to and fro, but no sheep guts to be seen. Perfect.

Looking around, he spotted a suitable tree and took to it like a squirrel. He clambered onto a branch midway up in seconds, and crawled out a ways before laying himself flat. Pulling up his crossbow, he looked toward the edge of the highway to the left. By his reckoning, those dumbass sheep should be breaking from cover any… there they were. About ten of them bunching up, readying to go downhill. Gregg immediately turned his gaze back onto the highway, and soon spotted the primary threat to his redemption barreling down the interstate.

[ **CROSSING HAZARD** ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1LUUQ4c7Wdk)

**SEMI TRUCKS**

No sooner had he spotted the first big rig when the sheep began their panicked rush down the incline of the hill. Gregg leveled the crossbow sight with his eye and took aim.

"Steady, steady. No time for screw-ups, dude."

Saying something like that would normally make him nervous, but he was too jacked on adrenaline to be fazed. Not jacked enough to affect his aiming, weirdly enough, as he trained his sights on the lower front corner of the oncoming truck. He allowed some seconds to take a breath and lock on, then pulled the trigger. The crossbow twanged silently as the bolt shot out, and in seconds a hit was registered with a thunderous pop.

"Frickin' Bulls-Eye!"

The big rig began to turn wildly side to side, but the driver had enough control and sense to veer it to the side of the road, tearing up a chunk of hill before coming to a stop. As cars honked and maneuvered their way around the stricken vehicle, the sheep in the meantime had begun their crossing.

Even more honks and wild steering, but not one car collided with a single sheep.

"Yes! Watch yourself, sheep!"

Gregg watched excitedly as the wayward sheep either kept running across the highway or retreated to the safety of the hill. The majority of them thought it best to go back the way they came, however three of them pushed on over the median and clear to the other side. The only three brave or stupid enough to go the whole way. And absolutely no casualties.

"I, I did it. I actually stopped them from getting splattered."

The three that had made it across just stood there on the border between the other side of the woods and the pavement. As they looked around, a thought occurred to Gregg.

"Wait, this is when I'm supposed to be down there yelling at them to come back. Are they gonna stay there now? Or are they still gonna—"

And right then two of them bolted back onto the highway.

"AAH SHIT!"

The fox fumbled and slammed his crossbow back against his shoulder, hurriedly taking aim to the right and instantly spotting the second semi truck. With no time to properly aim, he yelled before firing off a second bolt and praying to whoever or whatever was listening. A distant explosion of air answered his prayers before he saw the massive transport make a sharp, desperate turn to its left. It roared mere feet from the faces of the sheep as it trundled its way onto the median in a wail of brakes and strained axles. Either the loud noises or the literal brush with death convinced the two sheep to twirl around and scamper back to the safety of the forest's edge. Their stalwart brother, unnerved by all that has transpired, turned into the woods and bounced off to freedom, the other two following close behind. Shaken, but very much in one piece.

Speaking of shaken, Gregg let out a breath and slumped onto his branch, letting his eyes and muscles rest.

"That was close. Too close. But, they get to live. Three instead of one. Free instead of dead. Awesome…"

He laid there a few moments more to let his frayed nerves ease. When he chanced to open his eyes, he saw the one semi stranded in the median, its driver having stepped out and inspecting what had happened. It then occurred to Gregg the exact gravity of the situation.

"I need to get outta here. I'll get me and my uncle in big shit if they come looking and find me here."

With that he got himself down out of the tree and made his way back in the direction of the farm, holding the incriminating crossbow closely.

"Don't think anyone saw me. Still gonna have to dump this somewhere. Maybe toss it in the mulcher." He shrugged and picked up the pace, feeling dang good about himself. "But holy shit I saved them all! And nearly caused a major pile-up in doing so. Man, eight-year-old me lucked out on not having to deal with that. Actually, shouldn't I be going back to the present now? I fixed my greatest regret, so I should've been zapped back. Or how would I get back exactly? There were no notes or instructions saying what to do after taking care of things. Heh, it'd be pretty lame if I..."

He came to a halt as a dreadful realization made his jaw drop.

"No. No way. I can't… Am I seriously _stuck_ here? Stuck as a dumb kid? That means I'm gonna be around when my uncle beats me for freeing the sheep. And I'll have to go through puberty again. Oh effin' dammit this sucks so hard! GRRRAAAAAAAAHHHH!"

He felt the rising need to punch something. Punch his little paw into a tree until one of them was ground into pulp. Or gnaw at something. But this frustration abruptly passed when a mature, more composed thought arose.

"Should've expected that. I mean, being able to go and kill your past had to have _some kind_ of catch. And it's not really the worst sort of catch. Just have to relive my life back to adulthood. Kinda wish I'd brought some old lottery numbers to make a killing. Damn. But at least I can do more kid stuff without it being weird. I'm also not thinking like a kid, so I can be less stupid about stuff. Avoid making some really dumb decisions. Not be utter trash. Holy crap Yeah! I could totally improve myself with all my adult wisdom! Serious do-over for both middle _and_ high school! And I can hook up with Angus sooner than before! Hell Yeah!"

Gregg immediately broke into a run, a grin plastered wide on his face and his little mind filling up with newfound possibilities. Most enticing of all was the treasure he knew would be waiting for him down life's road.

"Just hang in there, Cap'n: your little Bug will be back soon… ish!"

* * *

**Thanks for playing!**

**You killed the past. The Gungeon remains...**


	4. The Gentleman

It was quite breathtaking: swirls of cosmic ether intermingled with spent bullet shells, relics of ages both past and future, and a very tranquil underlying thrum that soothed the soul as much as the dark yet vibrant colors soothed the eyes. A very welcome change of pace from the cacophony and sweltering heat of the Forge, especially so for the husky bear and his torn sweater vest—which he would have left behind had he known where he'd wind up.

"No one's here. That's rather peculiar," he observed aloud, but didn't dwell on it any longer than that. Having crossed the floating pillars, he stood a moment to take in the stellar environment. After expressing his suspicions, he proceeded to move at a slow, relaxed pace to the stairs that lay before him. These fantastical surroundings deserved to be visually absorbed and appreciated, he thought. That, and he didn't want to kick up his asthma with unnecessary running.

Breathing complications aside, Angus was always one to not rush things. This had certainly been the case when he first arrived in the Breach. Rather than dive on into the first Chamber, he walked around the vaulted entrance hall to seek out his wayward boyfriend. When he couldn't find him, or his other missing friend, he turned to the residents for information.

Admittedly they weren't the most talkative of characters, but he did get a good idea of what to expect of the Gungeon. Namely, the fact that once he entered, there was no immediate escape, not even through death. It was either delve the depths and claim the grand prize, or stay a permanent resident. While it might have been interesting to see how his video store clerk skills would fare in the field of arms dealing, he would much rather get back to his precious Bug.

Thus, he underwent extensive training under the tutelage of Sir Manuel. Extensive because his hefty self made mastery of the dodge roll a tad difficult, but his ghostly trainer was ever patient and encouraging. Once he trained enough to pull off the maneuver reasonably well, he took to the Gungeon proper in search of the one way out. The changing, rogue-like nature of the Chambers reminded Angus greatly of Demon Tower, though the enemy and weapon variety was far more expansive, and he didn't have to worry about his health diminishing every floor. However, he would've loved to have the flash step mechanic instead of having to throw his bulk around to avoid danger.

That quibble aside, his jaunts through the five floors were nevertheless interesting, if at times taxing and mildly frustrating. He got to see many bizarre things, helped out the Lost Adventurer in mapping the various rooms, and did battle with curious pun-heavy creatures using equally pun-tastic weapons and curios. On his final run he had managed to score a Proton Pack early on, and later obliterated all opposition with the powerful and hilariously broken combo of the Abyssal Tentacle and the Metronome. It really was like living out a video game; undoubtedly Gregg would've had a blast here, and such a thought made him lonely for the little fox's company.

In the time it took to recount these events, Angus had reached the pinnacle of the faux-ziggurat. Across from him was a lone ornate chest, with gilded statuettes on top that made him think of the Arc of the Covenant. Approaching it, he gave it a look-over and a few tentative pats. No traps as far as he could tell.

"Peculiar. But, it might've been needlessly cruel to have it booby trapped."

Confident in that assertion, Angus gently pushed the chest covering with a paw. After it had moved halfway back, it slid the rest of the way off on its own with a low creak. Light flared and flashed off the bear's glasses, blinding him a moment before the chest's coveted contents floated up. For some seconds it was a spinning blob of brilliance, but in a flash it took on an unquestionable shape and coloration: The Gun That Can Kill The Past. The light of the chest faded away as the one true Gun hovered gently down before Angus, patiently waiting on him to take hold.

He stared at the curved barrel and overall simplistic design for a few moments, coming to terms that he was holding his one true exit out of the Gungeon. In all his runs he hadn't found any trace of Mae or Gregg, and since they were nowhere in the Breach, he deduced that they had both come here and made use of this weapon. Something he was about to do as well.

With a solemn nod he brought the Gun close to his chest while gently putting down his Barrel. Ironic that fish would prove to be the Dragun's deathblow after he had burned through his other guns. One paw free, he dug into his pockets and pulled out the special Bullet that would make the Gun usable. Always pays to explore every room in each Chamber, otherwise he would have missed out on this vital item. Cocked and loaded, Angus brought the ceremonial weapon to bear (no pun intended) and readied to make his escape.

...At least, that had been his original intent. After all, he only came to the Gungeon to find out what happened to Gregg, and possibly Mae. With them gone, he just had to get back to Possum Springs where they were likely waiting. This would be as simple as undoing a more recent regret in his own past so he'd be close to where he started. Or perhaps go back to when they first heard that rumor and take a proactive approach in keeping them from running off.

However… all that wandering and dungeon-crawling gave him plenty of time to think. To ruminate. To reconsider certain aspects of his early life. And his musings inevitably zeroed in on a most unpleasant period that he had long believed to have accepted and moved past, but still heated his blood the more he thought about it. So given the once in a lifetime opportunity to undo something that still rankled him to this day… well, not even a guy as swell as Angus could resist such temptation.

His heart and mind decided, the bear pulled the trigger and blasted himself way back into the past. To remedy the greatest injustice in his humble life.

_EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE_

_Enter the Gun-geon! (Enter the Gun!)_

* * *

Generating…

* * *

**Delaney Residence**

**The Past (13 years prior)**

It was exactly as cramped as he remembered, and just as dark and suffocating. There were boxes and cans of food lying around and above his seated form, as well as on him. He remembered she had slammed the door extra hard that particular day, making him feel especially frightened and woeful.

The pantry of his old family home had long been a prison to him during most of his mother's worst days. A means to keep him out of sight so she wouldn't have to look at him, and more importantly not be reminded that he was a mouth to be fed. In some twisted way it served as a sanctuary, a reprieve from the beatings his father would deliver. Yet it never stopped him from getting hungry as well as scared.

The sounds of the TV filtered in through the wood. His mother was going about her life like everything was normal, while her own son wallowed away starving and neglected in some crummy-ass closet. This cannot be the way things work. Not for a kid. He couldn't sit there and do nothing; there had to be something he could do about this predicament.

**(Bust out of there)**

(Try reaching out to someone)

Angus had experienced enough in his life to know that there wasn't anyone out there who would help. There was no God to save him; it was only _him_. And he was going to settle things _**here and now.**_

The young bear, brimming with resolve, stood up from his seat of despair and turned to that cruel, lifeless door. Puffing out his chest, he pulled back a fist and, with one mighty punch, smashed the pantry door to pieces. Huge chunks of cheap lumber flew out into the dingy kitchen, scattering over tile and heaping onto the dining table and countertops beyond. As he stepped out from the confines of the pantry, his jailer promptly arrived, her beige smock mottled with random stains and her face looking like that of a raving banshee.

"What just exploded in here?!" Spotting the youth standing amidst the wreckage, she screeched, "ANGUS! What did you do to the kitchen!?"

Not the least bit unnerved by that soul-rending tone, he turned a cold level gaze toward her and said, "Hello, mother."

The matriarch was momentarily befuddled by this firm, unintimidated greeting, but her rancor swelled back up more scathing than before. "Are you out of your *#^%ing mind? How did you break through that door? And making this $&^ ing mess; when your father hears about this—"

And practically right on cue there stepped in the head of the household, back from work in his soot-covered flannel shirt and jeans.

"What is with all this racket? The neighbors can hear every damn—" He stopped when he beheld the debris covering almost every surface, and instantly turned a mean look to his undeniably guilty son. "Boy, what the hell did you do to the kitchen?"

"That's exactly what I'm wanting to know!" his wife shouted.

"I was done being cooped up in that pantry. No place for a kid, you know."

Angus' father sneered. "Don't like the tone you're making. Especially not with you blowing a damn hole in my house."

" _Our_ house, dad. I live here same as you, and you should be treating me like a person and not some animal."

"Just where do you get off telling us what to do you little shit!"

"This is why you need a more hands-on approach when dealing with him, woman." Having placated his wife for the moment, Mr. Delaney gave his son a malicious grin. "If that's your attitude, boy, then I won't have to hold back this time around."

In one swift motion he reached down, unbuckled and whipped out his leather belt, snapping it with a crack. The missus withdrew a rolling pin in order to join her husband in showing their defiant son a lesson in respect and obedience.

[ **MODELS OF CRUELTY** ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1LUUQ4c7Wdk)

**MR. & MRS. DELANEY**

Neither his father's provocation or weapon had an effect on Angus. For too long he prostrated to parental fear and intimidation. With a loosening of his neck and knuckles, he took a stance for his freedom. For here and now, he was going to conquer these demons with his bear hands (pun _definitely_ intended).

Mr. Delaney came stomping with belt raised, but Angus sidestepped and back kicked, catching his father's shin and toppling him forward. The elder bear pushed himself back up onto a knee and whipped his arm around to belt his son. Angus ducked (all that dodge rolling really boosts the reflexes), then straightened up and delivered a right hook to his dear papa's face, followed by a left jab that sent him back onto the floor. At that moment the lady of the house stepped up to pound in his head with the rolling pin, but he kicked up a piece of pantry door and swung it around, catching her waist and knocking the breath out of her.

With his mother winded, Angus performed a sweet roundhouse kick with his kid legs and sent his tyrannical ma flying… about two feet. But it was still enough to get her to slam against the wall, sending a cascade of knickknacks down upon her head and shoulders from a poorly affixed shelf. This small triumph was short-lived as his father had recovered and struck back with a vengeance, the belt catching the side of his face and leaving a nasty gash. As first blood spilled, rather than recoil from the pain or cry out as any ordinary child would do, Angus instead used the affliction to his advantage. Reaching deep down into himself, he produced an Enraging Mental Photograph of all the injuries and injustices done to him, filling him up with the kind of rage he had long denied in his adulthood, as well as distaste over a certain crappy song's ascension to meme status. Why was the internet so obsessed with something so trite?!

Bolstered with hot-blooded strength, Angus roared and turned on his newly-terrified father. The senior Delaney made to slap with his belt once more, but the Fortunate Son smacked it away with one paw before slamming both paws on either side of his head. Angus then took the liberty to unleash a string of brutal headbutts into his dazed father's face before wrapping his arms around his neck to form a tight chokehold. His mother had recovered and waddled at him with rolling pin raised, only to get a back kick in the thigh that made her flinch. During this window, Angus girded his strength and yanked his father back with a mighty pull, tossing him over with a back throw into his wife.

The cruel couple crashed into a messy heap, but the matron of malice tossed aside her husband and flew back up onto her feet, screeching out with the activation of her own Rage Mode. She charged at her problem child and swung wildly with the kitchen utensil, forcing Angus to bob and weave for his protection. She eventually flung it down at him, and right after he dodged it he found himself airborne as his mother grabbed hold of his shoulders, hefted him up and threw him sideways onto the countertops. His head banged against the upper cupboards and for a moment he was disoriented, but his anger served to readjust his senses so he could spot his mother coming at him with paws raised to throttle.

Reaching up and taking hold of a cupboard door, Angus yanked hard and ripped it off its hinges, bringing it down squarely on his mother's head right as she got to him. He then kicked her in the collarbone, knocking the mama bear off-balance so that she banged against and fell back onto the table in the center of the room. Angus was about to hop off the counter to get at her, but then he took stock of how she was positioned: laid out over the kitchen table, wide open for anything. His next move flashed into his mind like a Roman candle. An opportunity like this simply couldn't be shirked.

He carefully brought his feet under him, and slowly stood up. He took a moment to line up juuuust right, then patting his arm to further psyche himself up, he leapt, twisted, and delivered a devastating elbow drop into his mother's torso. So devastating, in fact, it split the table in two and created an indent in the kitchen floor once her body made impact, rattling the whole house in the process! A finisher so brutal even Mae would've been impressed.

After a few seconds Angus stood up, brushed himself off, and looked over the breadth of his retaliation: the kitchen a complete disaster zone, both his parents beat down into submission, and only him left standing tall, free, and empowered. His cheek still stung from the hit he took from his father; probably should've trained under Sir Blockner a bit to have better handled that. But the trials of the Gungeon had done its job in making him capable of dealing some oh-so-satisfying justice. Personal justice, rather. No doubt all the noise will alert the neighbors into calling the cops, at which point his parents' cruel activities would be exposed, and Angus more than likely would end up in Child Protection Services… who will send him far away from Possum Springs. Meaning he'd never get to meet Gregg, or any of his other friends and acquaintances. But most importantly it'd mean life without his Bug! Shit!

He had been so caught up in exacting vengeance for his childhood traumas he hadn't stopped to consider how it would alter his life down the line. If he had taken some more time to think things out back in the Inner Vault, he might've come up with a more elegant, long-term approach in getting payback. Just goes to show why it's usually a bad idea to act out in anger.

His fretful mullings were disrupted when he heard the groan of his father, who appeared to have regained consciousness and was looking to get himself back up… very slowly. Angus' brain whirred and quickly formulated an outline of a fresh new plan. There was still a chance to get things back on track.

Stepping up to his fallen padre, he grabbed a pawful of hair and pulled up his father's bloodied face. Angus' nose wrinkled; it was a bonafide Pungent Blood Cocktail with all that had spilled from the poor asshole's nose and upper lip.

"Who, what… what in god's name are ya?" he sputtered out.

"Your son."

"Huh?"

"Listen." Angus made his firmest bear stare yet. "I don't know why you and mom hate me so much, and I don't want to get into any of that. Right now I'm telling the both of you to stop the abuse and behave like actual decent parents."

"And why the f*$^ would we do that, you monster?"

"Because I just proved I can defend myself, and it would look really bad if the authorities learned about your method of parenting." That put a lid on the elder's defiance, but not without him letting out a grumble. "I'm not saying you have to spoil me or be a super attentive and supportive dad. You don't like me, and I'd be hard-pressed to say something nice about you, so here's a compromise: treat me like a lodger. One that's staying here until I'm old enough to move out and get my own place."

"A lodger whose food and living and education I have to pay for."

"I'll see about getting a job when summer rolls around, and every summer and holiday break after that, so I won't ask you for any allowances. Just let me go to school, come back home, and live without hassle. In return, I won't ever say a word to you or mom unless absolutely necessary. I'll keep to myself like always; it'll be like I'm never here."

Father and son locked eyes for a few tense seconds, the younger bear waiting for some kind of response from his sire. Finally, Mr. Delaney let out a disgruntled sigh and said, "Fine. But not a goddamn peep from you, or I'll kick ya out one way or another."

"Understood." Angus let go of his father's hair and stood up. "You should get cleaned up in case somebody comes around. And take mom with you; I'll tidy up the kitchen. It's the very least I can do."

"Damn right it's the very least."

With a groan, Daddy Dearest got himself back on his feet and exited the kitchen, taking a few moments to heft up and carry out his unconscious wife. Alone once more, Angus surveyed the ungodly mess around him: broken table, broken door, smashed porcelain, and a fair amount of blood splatters. Most fortuitous his brother wasn't around that day to see this disaster unfold. Taking a deep breath and making a contented smile, he went in search of a broom.

Time will tell if that last ditch bid for reconciliation will pull through and keep the household intact. But given how his parents got away with beating and starving him originally, Angus felt confident that the uncaring nature of his community will keep turning a blind eye. He also couldn't help but harbor some hope that this could incite a sort of rehabilitation between him and his folks. That maybe someday they might resemble something akin to a normal family. Not a particularly loving one, but definitely one with a hell lot more respect. He wasn't sure if it would mean his dad would stick around in later years, or if it will encourage him to run out much sooner. Very likely the latter, but it'll be no big loss.

In any case, he got to show his parents a piece of his mind when it actually mattered. And that kind of gratification is worth a (not so) little detour.

* * *

**Thanks for playing!**

**You killed the past. The Gungeon remains...**


	5. The Best Available Friend

It certainly looked like the kind of place to hold a sacred relic: imposing stone pillars, multiple ascending staircases, all floating around in a field of stars and purple space gases. The swanky interior decorating of the Inner Vault did little to put the newcomer at ease, though, or even invoke the teeniest bit of wonder. There was still one last thing to do, and she wasn't going to waste time gawking at stuff, even though time essentially stopped the moment she stepped into the cursed halls of the Gungeon. Bea has just never been one to dawdle.

She also was never one to get into unnecessary conflicts: that was more Mae's thing. Possibly Gregg's, sometimes. Hence, she preferred not to spend too much time in a crazy-ass gun dungeon, getting ambushed and shot at by smiley-faced or grimacing abominations of metal and soul. Not that she had a particularly difficult time in facing what the Gungeon offered. In fact, she came close to conquering the place in under twenty runs. Mostly due to some rather sweet passive abilities, admittedly.

Her years managing The Ol' Pickaxe granted her a Handyman perk, which improved the damage and accuracy of all tool-based weaponry, such as the H4mmer and the Anvillain; she even got some great mileage from the Starpew. Then there was her Fixer-Upper perk that upgraded weapons of broken or prototype status, making junk guns and one-shot wonders into legitimate threats. And if that wasn't enough, she also got a complimentary roll of Duct Tape which allowed her to make some truly sick weapon combos. The very model of preparedness, that Beatrice Santello… where DIY was concerned, at any rate.

With torn dress and fatigue beginning to creep in, the alligator lass ascended the stairs, wanting to get this insane roller coaster of violence, egregious puns and gross mishandling of hardware done with. Normally she'd grumble about the needless number of steps, but she had long exhausted her grump on seeing rooms and traps repeat themselves ad nauseum. Plus, *not* grumbling actually made the climb go by quicker, allowing her reach the top in no time. And there, before her, was the coveted chest: the Gungeon's greatest treasure.

"So this is it?"

Said more like a statement than a question, really. Of course Bea knew she still needed to get to that pretty box and open it up before casting proper judgment. With that in mind, she got her smudged, mildly-burnt boots moving to get her there.

As she approached the treasure chest, she holstered her trusty Nailgun. Most unwieldy and awful, the Gunsling King would cry out. Bea would like to imagine just how dumbfounded that pompous jerk would be if he learned how so uncouth a weapon delivered the literal final nail in the venerated Dragun's coffin. The thought was momentary, as the uncovering of the chest became her primary concern upon reaching it. She stared and blinked at it a few seconds, sensing some kind of drawing force within, before bringing up her claws and pushing the lid aside. After a few inches the lid removed itself, falling off from the back edge as light poured out. From such incandescent depths there arose and materialized The Gun That Can Kill The Past which, after doing its little twirl, wasted no further time in hovering gently down into Bea's open palms. While the Nailgun had been bulky, the weight of this piece was considerable. For a number of reasons.

"So you're the one, huh? The thing that can change the past. That can redo anything."

A very dumb, far-fetched rumor. That's what she originally thought when the first word of the Gungeon and its treasure made its round among her small circle of friends. Some silly legend to make snarky comments about while having awful pizza at the Clik Clak. Mild entertainment fated to be forgotten by all… until the day most of her friends up and disappeared, forcing her to take a day off to find them. It's little surprise that Mae or Gregg would go off on some stupid goose chase, but Angus as well? They were gonna get such a massive piece of her mind for dragging her into this.

And that's precisely what she did after finding them in the woods just outside of town (far from the mines, fortunately). Yet even after raking them over the verbal coals, they had insisted that the rumor was true and that there *was* such as thing as a Gungeon. What's more, they even claimed that they had each succeeded in finding the Gun, going back in time and undoing their respective past regrets. Utterly ridiculous, right?

They persisted, however, and the genuine conviction shared between all three of them eventually wormed its way into Bea's thoughts a week after their return. Either her friends had suffered a group hallucination and stumbled about in those woods, or they had indeed found some magical dungeon and redid their lives. But could such a thing truly exist? Was there really something that would let her change her past? In a few days after asking herself that question, she found the man who started the rumor; an hour from that she had stepped into the Breach; and after many more hours of struggle she held the very answer.

As she loaded the special ammunition, her mind turned to the statue in the first Chamber and its inscription: "Kill your past; you've already damned your future". She had essentially damned herself in searching for answers to farfetched questions, but she was committed nevertheless. To chase a foolish, fleeting hope; to see if running out on her friends, her home, had been worth it. And with that reversed barrel raised and aimed, she held down the trigger.

"You better work." As the universe rattled and darkened around her, she added her other claw in gripping the gun and, closing her eyes, whispered, "...please work."

In a blink, Bea's very reality blew apart spectacularly, and the young crocodilian plummeted from the physical realm down into the fathomless well of Time. Clinging to one small, but fervent desire.

_EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE_

_Enter the Gun-geon! (Enter the Gun!)_

* * *

Generating…

* * *

**Briddle Hospital**

**The Past (2 years prior)**

The stark white and grey tiling coupled with the bright fluorescent lights overhead were probably meant to evoke a calm, or at least sterile atmosphere. But sitting in that stiff chair for an hour, listening to the beepings of lives literally being monitored in various rooms, gave Bea more of a caged feeling. She had always hated those moments of waiting in that seemingly endless, empty hall, both because of not having anything to do but read, and because of the purpose of the visit. No matter how many times she had come over the past few weeks, she could never shake off the dread that hung in that tasteless hospital air.

This latest period of discomfort ended when the doctor on call stepped out from the doorway to her right. It took him a moment to settle his neutral gaze upon her and begin speaking.

"Your mother is in stable condition, though I cannot say for how long. Things have… progressed to the point where I'm afraid the next lapse she has could be her last. Not to cause any further distress, but this may be the last time you'll be able to talk to her while she's lucid." He looked around before addressing her again. "Where is your father?"

"He went for a walk. He's probably down in the lobby by now."

"I suggest you call him. He will undoubtedly want to speak with her."

"He doesn't have a phone on him."

"Oh… Well, I'll see if I can find him. You can come in and talk with her in the meantime. Just… try not to excite or agitate her too much. Her condition is delicate enough as it is."

"I know. Thanks, doctor."

Bea never liked how he assumed she'd make things worse, but that was probably his job, she reflected later on. The doctor wandered off down the hall to bring back her dad, leaving her alone to face what was to come.

Getting up from her chair and blinking the fatigue from her eyes, Bea stepped around the chairs and entered the patient's room. To once again confront that terrible, all-consuming beast.

**THAT DRAGON**

**CANCER**

The same large rectangular space, with its six beds arranged neatly three to each side, most of them occupied. She headed directly for the center bed on her left, moving past the cordoning curtain. Blocky bed, beeping monitors, some wilting flowers on a small table… and her mother sitting at the center of it all. Her earliest role model, one of the strongest people she ever knew, bedridden and hooked up to various machines that did little but track her steady decay. But there wasn't a trace of suffering on the face that turned her way as she sat on a folding chair. Even with her scales withered and grossly paled, the smile her mother made shone with kindly warmth. Almost like she was welcoming her daughter to the table for breakfast back home.

"Ah, hello, Bea."

"Hey Mom. How are you feeling?"

"Pretty good. Much better than a few hours ago. I'm sorry you had to miss out on school to come out here."

"It's okay. Nothing I can't catch up on."

"Hmm, ever our scholar. Where's your father?"

"He'll be here in a bit. Just… had to get a drink of water."

"Ah, alright. He certainly doesn't want to be cooped up here any more than you do, worrying over my sorry self."

Bea flinched. "Don't say that, Mom. We'd still come, even if the hospital didn't call us."

"I know you would, sweetie. Lord knows you both have made ample visits already. Him missing out on rest from managing the store, and you not hanging out with your friends. Just to drive up here to this crummy bed of mine for an hour."

"You're still a part of our lives. Just because you're… here, doesn't change that."

"Your father would definitely agree. *Sigh* Just shows that even in the worst of times, a low opinion of yourself does you no favors."

All playing out same as before. For someone so positive and benevolent, to be subjected to this slow and torturous demise. It's a thought that still rankled Bea in her most bitter reflections.

"So, did they happen to tell either of you how bad it is this time?" her mother asked simply.

"...More or less."

"Hmph, there really isn't a nicer or easier way of putting it. My time is nearly up; it's all just a matter of waiting for the end to come."

Bea just sat there quietly.

"I didn't mean to upset you any further by being so blunt about it. I just accepted the fact a good long while ago. As the two of you undoubtedly did as well."

"Yeah…" Eventually. There had been plenty of fleeting hopes and bitter denials before Bea acknowledged the definite certainty of the matter. Her father on the other hand…

"That's just the nature of the beast. You'd never expect a thing like cancer to happen to you, but when it happens to sneak up you can only fight it best as you can. And if you can't beat it, you just have to live with it and move on with some grace."

"..."

"I'm sorry for going morbid again, honey, hahaha. But you just can't let it destroy your spirit as well as your body. That's true tragedy right there. And I want you and your father to remember that."

"Of course." This woman's final moment of lucidity, and still she was thinking about others, being optimistic. Bea would ask where an all-caring god fit into this equation… then immediately remember that night deep in the mines.

"Not to say I don't have regrets on the matter," her mother said. "Who wouldn't in this situation? I won't be there to see you graduate from college, make your way in the world, maybe have some children, heheheh. But, I am grateful that I was able to see you grow into the smart, beautiful young woman that you are."

Bea about choked up there, but kept her composure as her mother continued.

"You have always been a spark of joy for the both of us, Beatrice. Even when we've had our disagreements, I still feel pride in seeing you becoming more independent. I couldn't have asked for a better daughter to have loved and cared for all these years. And at this moment, I still hold nothing but the deepest love and pride for you. Don't ever think otherwise."

"I know, Mom. I love you too."

Suddenly Bea's mom fell back into the bed, arms falling to her sides. However, she gave her daughter a look of tired assurance before any panic could arise.

"Sorry. I'm feeling a bit worn out. Heh, imagine: it's gotten to the point where holding a conversation is exhausting. A real drag, among other things." After taking a breath, she looked to Bea and said, "Don't call the nurse; I'm not in any pain. Just need to lie down awhile. You should go find your father. I'll be fine by the time you get back."

The strain of her talking was evident in her mother's eyes and her breathing. It pained Bea seeing this pitiful state she had been reduced to, but it wouldn't be right to tax her any further with needless chatter. She ought to find dad and bring him back, to share their final words. Real calm and collected.

**(Stay longer)**

(Let her rest)

Bea reached forward and clasped one of those frail claws with both of her own. Looking into those weary eyes that still possessed a life like no other, she let it out. Composure be damned.

"Mom, I'm not putting this off longer. I thought I'd play it cool for your sake, but that's just playing the coward, and I won't have another chance to tell you how much I appreciate all that you've done for me. All those times you were there to support me, to help me those few times I thought I effed up. You have been an inspiration, the great guiding influence in my life. You've shown me compassion, patience, and wisdom. When you go I, there's gonna times I'll feel stuck and lost, with barely anything to look forward to. And you, you won't be there. I'll have no one to talk to the same way I talk to you. I won't have your guidance, to show or tell me what to d-do. And in those times I'll, I'll feel like I took everything you did for me for granted. I would wind up regretting not telling you more, thanking you more, knowing how dark my life will become with you gone. I don't want you to go, but… that's how it is. All I can do is say I love you, Mom. I love you so, so, so, so damn much. I, I can't say it enough. I'll never be able to say it enough. That's just how much you mean to me, how much you'll *still* mean to me. Nothing can ever hope to match or replace you. I'm gonna… gonna miss you so effing much."

Bea would have two years to harden herself for the hardships the future would bring. For now, she allowed herself this moment of weakness and shed her tears early. As she choked out a few breaths, she felt her mother's claw squeeze weakly, gently back. Looking through her tear-stung eyes, she saw that same warm smile.

"Beatrice… though I know for a fact how much you love me, hearing you say it out loud makes me happier than I already am. But, you mustn't sound so hopeless when you say it. You have the smarts and the sense to handle anything that comes your way, and you'll have your friends and your father to carry you if it ever becomes too much. You can't let this cancer destroy more than just my own life. You just have to carry on and live, as your father will, as will everyone else. Be happy, for goodness sake; be hopeful of what's to come. I know it's cliché, but as long as you remember me in your heart, I'll always be with you." Another tender squeeze. "And don't go getting hung up on me judging your future choices. Just do what's best for you and that'll be fine by me. I don't intend on haunting you over any slip ups."

Bea couldn't help but smile and chuckle at that little jest, and calming down she withdrew her claws.

"Yeah, that's good to know," she said while wiping her eyes with the sleeves of her shirt. "Always know the right things to say. That's why you're so awesome."

"Coming from a high schooler, I'm especially flattered." Another chuckle from Bea, followed by a deep breath. "Feeling better?"

"Yeah. No, actually…"

Bea leaned forward and embraced her mom, mindful of the attached wires. She nuzzled against that maternal head with eyes closed, soaking it in and letting a few more tears drop while feeling the comfort of a return hug. After a minute that felt far too short, she removed herself.

"Alright. Now I'm better."

"It's trying, I know; it wrecks with people's emotions. At least you had the courage and sense to let it out instead of bottling it up."

"Uh-huh." Bea blinked a few times before a thought occurred. "I just remembered. There's something I brought for you."

"Is it more flowers? Won't do much good at this point."

"No. It's right here."

Bea delved into her skirt, and from a hidden Item Space she pulled out… a large, luscious Orange, with a single green leaf sticking from its stem.

"I got it from the cafeteria. I thought we could share it, even though we're not supposed to bring in food without—"

"Pah! It's one of their own. Besides, I think I can manage a simple fruit. So yes, I'd love some, Bea."

"Great. Let me just…"

Carefully Bea dug into and peeled away the skin, and once it was off she used her claws to separate the sections. She handed one to her mother before raising one for herself, then both partook of the succulent fruit silently for a moment.

"Mmmm… this is really juicy. And incredibly delicious."

"It really is."

A souvenir from the Gungeon. One its most potent Items: able to replenish life, as well as extend it. But it couldn't cure her mother's cancer. Bea wasn't naivé enough to believe that such a remedy existed, or that there was any way of stopping this cruel affliction. To extend this final moment further was all she could realistically have hoped to have done. And she wouldn't have had it any other way.

What followed was exactly as she remembered it. Her dad returned to bid his own final farewells; her mother's condition worsened, rendering her speechless; and in under a week's time she passed away. The funeral was held a week after that, attended by the few friends and family who had shown up. Typical somber occasion, with plenty of condolences and hugs given. She was still buried in that sunken plot beneath the hill, further hidden away under layers of shadow and autumn leaves.

When Bea and her father inevitably returned home, she was physically and emotionally drained. Having to live through her mother's death a second time was hardly more bearable. The house was quite melancholy, as to be expected, though the gloom was disrupted briefly by the heavy steps of Bea's father traversing its living room. Neither one of them had talked on the drive home, and the silence persisted minutes after stepping through the front door. Loosening the tie on his mourning suit, Mr. Santello looked at his daughter with his usual stoic gaze.

"You up for making dinner tonight?"

"In a couple hours, sure. Just feeling tired."

"Hrm. We could order out instead, if you want."

"Yeah. That sounds good."

He gave a curt nod and turned away in the direction of the picture-laden hall leading to his bedroom. Her dad has always been the firm, reserved type, yet over the past week he had become more distant. Understandable given what's happened. A momentary fugue that'll dissipate over time. He just needed space; a chance to breathe and consolidate. It happens all the time where a death in the family is concerned.

But Bea knew better. It was a sign of things to come: minute, easily overlooked. Something that can be brushed off as part of the mourning process. She wasn't going to make the same mistake twice. Not when it's the main reason for coming back to this unhappy point.

**(Confront him)**

(Leave him be)

Hurrying across the living room, she was up by her father's back in a breath.

"Dad, we need to talk."

Mr. Santello stopped and half-turned back. "Huh? About what, Bea?"

"About Mom."

He shifted, visibly caught off-guard. "Oh? Uh, can we talk about it later? I want to unwind first."

"No, we need to talk about it now," Bea said firmly, to which her father sighed.

"I know how tough it's been for you and it's still fresh in your mind, so let me get comf—"

"It's not about me, Dad. It's about you."

He looked at her a moment before saying, "Huh?"

"About how you're dealing with Mom's death. How you're holding up."

"Oh. Well, as okay as I can be. It's… tough, but I'm fine."

"No you're not."

"What?" His daughter's blunt statement caught him even further off-guard.

"How are you really feeling? Tell me."

"What's this about? I said I'm fine."

"You're not *fine*, Dad. Too much is going on in your head to *let* you be fine."

"How would you know?" he snapped, sounding agitated.

"Because you've been married to Mom for over twenty years, and even with your usual grit, there's a fragile center that will collapse given enough emotional weight."

He leveled a firm stare at her. "...What makes you think you can talk that way to me, Beatrice?"

"Because that's how you really are. You're more torn up about this than you're letting on, and hiding it will only make it worse."

The two looked at one other stiffly, tension building in the air until Bea's dad grunted and turned away.

"We're done talking."

"No we're not."

"Go to your room, Beatrice." He began moving, but Bea dared to follow closely.

"No Dad, we're talking this out."

"There's nothing to talk about."

"Yes there is! You're hurting inside—"

"Dammit Beatrice don't tell me how I'm feeling!" he roared out while turning back to face his daughter. "Where do you get off saying there's something wrong with me, not even a day after burying your mother. You know how disrespectful you're being?"

"I'm fully aware. But that doesn't change the fact that there *is* something wrong about how you're dealing with this," Bea persisted. "Mom wouldn't want you bottle it up to uphold appearances."

"Don't say that."

"It's depressing and painful, but you can't ignore it. You'll never be able to accept Mom's death properly like that."

"Stop it, Beatrice."

"You can't pretend it's okay when it's not. It'll just eat you up until there's nothing left to hold you together."

"I said *stop*!"

"No! I won't until you listen and start talking to me."

"Beatrice, I'm warning you—"

"I don't care! I'm going to keep at it until you're honest about your feelings."

"I have nothing to sa—"

"Right now nothing seems wrong, but this road you're going down will leave you a hollow shell of yourself. I won't let that happen, for Mom's sake."

"Don't drag her into this bullshit shrink talk! What makes you think—"

"She wants us to move on, to live. What would she think if you end up having a breakdown over her death?"

"Don't do this."

"She doesn't want either of us to suffer as much as she did, and that's what you're doing by acting like it doesn't matter."

"Of course it MATTERS!" Mr. Santello slammed his fist against the wall, followed by a banging of his other arm. He glared at Bea, who stood there motionless. "God-Dammit! Why are you doing this to me? What the hell do you want?"

"I want to help you. I don't want to see you destroy yourself, which is precisely what's gonna happen if I leave you to deal with this alone."

"How are you so sure about all that? What makes you think I'm gonna crack, huh?"

"I just do. I mean, look at how on edge you are."

"Only because you're badgering me."

"If nothing was wrong, I doubt you'd behave like this under some scrutiny. If this isn't addressed, those feelings of yours are gonna build up and either explode or hollow you out. Either way, it's gonna make a mess out of you."

"That, that's…"

"You know what I'm saying is true. I've known you too long to think otherwise. So, will you please let it out? Please, Dad?"

Her father just looked at her, breathing deeply through his nostrils, then pounded his arm against the wall. "Shit." He pounded repeatedly. "Shit shit shit shit SHIT!"

A picture fell from its nail and clattered onto the floor. It was ignored, though, as Mr. Santello himself crumpled down onto his rear, looking defeated and distraught.

"It's been a week, and I miss her. It damned tore me up like nothing you can imagine, seeing her getting buried. I, I loved her so much; she was so good to us. To have them put her in the ground like it's nothing, just another body to put away. It's just so, so, so f*& ing messed up. How are they so indifferent? Why did this even have to happen to her? She never deserved this. Why couldn't it have been, been..."

His defenses finally gave way as he began to cry. It was a distressing sight for Bea, seeing her taciturn father blubbering away, grief-stricken. But a wound brought to light can heal properly. She got closer to her father, knelt down and wrapped her arms around his wide frame.

"I know, Dad, I know. She really was wonderful. Irreplaceable. But what's done is done. We just... have to remember her as she'd want us to, and be happy. She wants us to carry on."

"I don't know how. I, I didn't know how much I needed her here until the day she, she, she…" He broke down into more choking sobs, prompting Bea to hug him a bit tighter and give some comforting pats.

"We'll find a way. Just, let it out. I'm here for you, Dad. I won't go anywhere."

Father and daughter sat in that hallway, filling the somber home with bitter yet cathartic sorrow. After that moment, Bea's father became receptive to the idea of therapy, support groups, other methods in helping one cope with tragedy. And in participating in them, his heart and mind healed greatly, as opposed to the slow rot of a silent vigil.

This wasn't a perfect fix to everything, however. The lingering costs for Mrs. Santello's treatment and death would still force the two to sell their house and move into a shitty apartment. But at least her dad wouldn't suffer a debilitating breakdown, which meant that Bea wouldn't be constrained to run the family business out of obligation. She would be free to be her own person. She might even be able to go to college.

Even if things don't quite work out so nicely (life does have that tendency to screw you over one way or another, let's face it), Bea could still view her future with brighter eyes and even greater hope. And should times get especially effed, she can count on the likes of Mae, Gregg, Angus, even Casey to help her through. I mean, that's what true friends are for, right?

* * *

**Thanks for playing!**

**You killed the past. The Gungeon remains...**


	6. The Fallen One

_It appears you've met with a terrible fate._

…

_Surprised? Or just indifferent?_

_Either way, it's a rather unfortunate end all the same._

_One you had no control over._

_Quite sad, really._

…

_However, it doesn't necessarily have to stay that way._

..?

_What if I told you that there's a way to go back?_

..!

_Yes, a bid for your very salvation._

_To redo events and grant yourself a more… favorable outcome._

_But it's not something that can just be handed to you._

_You will have to earn it, and that in of itself is no easy task._

_But if you're truly committed, you'll possess it in no time at all._

_...Oh no, it's not something you have to do for me._

_But, I'll send you to where you can prove your mettle._

_After all, everyone deserves a second chance._

* * *

Those had been the old man's words before dumping him into the Breach, and into possession of a random cultist. After putting his borrowed body through the paces of Gungeoneering he eventually made it to the the Inner Vault. Atop the altar's pinnacle, with The Gun That Can Kill The Past and ammo in hand, he was ready to carry out what had enticed him to challenge this forsaken crypt. The whole ordeal had been more bullshit than harrowing; the threat of pain and death had left him long before he fell that first time to a Gundead's bullet. It was really only a matter of trial and error and sheer determination to make it to the end. And considering what his alternative was, this was nothing.

But this was where he needed to get serious. He doubted he'd get another go after this, literally making this his one shot. And it wasn't gonna happen if he kept standing there, so bracing those robed arms before him, he willed the fingers to pull the trigger one more time. After the shaky startup, he immediately felt the explosive blow to the head of his psyche, ripping him away from his tentative hold on reality and into the shapeless, colorful whirlpool of time. Straight down into that second chance.

_EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE_

_Enter the Gun-geon! (Enter the Gun!)_

* * *

Generating…

* * *

**Abandoned Mines**

**The Past (6 Months Prior)**

Casey awoke once more in darkness. Only it was the itchy confines of a burlap sack instead of the endless nothing of the afterlife, and the fact he could *feel* something like discomfort was extra assuring. There were murmurings, whispers around him; damp cool air brushing against his bound legs that contrasted with the stuffiness of the sack. He immediately remembered being tied up in these final moments, while several hands on his back carried him along to who-knows-what. He still felt a little groggy from whatever they did to knock him out in the first place, but he was far more alert and aware of how much danger he was in.

In just a few moments he'll end up biting the big one again. If he was to avoid that, he had to act fast. He could wiggle a bit; perhaps enough force could get him off this express ride to Hell. Whatever it takes to get free.

**(Use Blank)**

(Struggle)

Imagine his surprise when he felt the familiar smoothness of a tiny cylinder in his possession. Something that he'd used in dire emergencies, or if he was hunting for secrets. And there was nothing more dire than now, he thought as he set off the little round. In a burst of light and kinetic energy his restraints, the covering of the sack, and the people carrying him were blown off like autumn leaves, allowing him to fall and hit the floor unbound.

The first thing Casey discovered was that he was back in his original body: same grubby paws, same shitty black hoodie, same greasy head of hair. Next he took in his surroundings, finding himself in a large, dank subterranean cavern, lit up by some eerie-ass red lanterns. A few yards away was a deep, wide hole which he had been seconds away from being tossed into by...

"The hell happened?"

"Was that a bomb?!"

"What's going on?"

The group of people wearing heavy coats and mining hats scattered about the place. A few of them were staggering or lying on the ground from the Blank burst, but close to a dozen were standing around in a wide circle. The darkness of the cave blotted what parts of their faces weren't already obscured by their headgear, so they were essentially a mob of uniformly-dressed shadows… with country accents. From being in the body of a cultist, to landing in a sea of them; hell of a return to the living.

"Shit, the kid's loose!"

Seemed the Blank's effect was just as short-lived here as in the Gungeon, Casey determined as he saw the outer ring of cultists begin to stir and move inward toward him. He leaned forward and planted a paw down to make a run for it, but stopped upon noticing an M1911 lying just a few inches from him. He knew the pistol was an M1911 because it had the same shape, coloration, and even wear of those he had picked up in the Gungeon.

Without delay he grabbed the gun and raised it.

"Back the hell off!" he shouted, cocking the hammer and frantically waving the piece at his captors.

"He's got a gun!"

"How'd he get that?"

"None of you come near me!" Casey warned as he got up shakily on his legs, never lowering his weapon.

"Now now, son, take it easy. Let's be calm about this."

"Eff you! I'm not holding still for anything!" While wildly gazing about himself for any comers, Casey spotted the archway some yards behind him embedded in the solid rock, and the shadowy corridor beyond. Exit. He furrowed his brow and scowled at the cultists. "I'm getting out of here, and none of you are stopping me."

There was a tense pause, until one of the cultists stepped forward and said, "We cannot let you do that."

"That right? I'm not tied up, so there's really jack shit you can do about that."

"There's a whole lot more of us than you, kid."

"Like that matters to me. I'll just even you out; don't think I won't do it."

"Just put the gun down and it won't have to come to that," said one cultist as some of his fellows began to edge toward the harried miscreant.

"All of you stay back! I'm not gonna say it again!"

The cloaked creeps paid no heed, instead slowly approaching him as one. Seeing them undeterred by his weapon made Casey's arms stiffen with panic as he jerked them side to side. However, the tension snapped when something lunged in from his right. One of the cultists that had been knocked down earlier had snuck up to make a grab, but Casey twisted around and popped off a round into their left shoulder.

The rapport rang loudly through the cave, practically muting the grunt of the stricken cultist as they collapsed to their knees. Casey looked, stunned at what he'd done. Shooting an actual person was nothing like taking out some cheery waddling Gundead. But the shock proved to be momentary; without thinking he turned and fired at a cultist trying to get the jump him, getting them square in the chest.

Casey backpedaled before turning and sprinting for the exit to avoid any more surprises. In seconds he was practically at the archway, but before his foot could hit the threshold, something tall and solid sprang up in front of him and clutched his throat with a vise-like grip.

"Get your scrawny ass back there!"

The hand on his throat lifted and tossed Casey back like a sack of deer pelts onto the ground. The young feline groaned but scrambled back onto his feet, looking at the one who thwarted his escape. Same coat and headlamp ensemble, if a bit skinnier than his fellow cultists. But he seemed to blend in with the darkness, as though he were a living part of the scenery. An impression further helped by the fact that his lower half looked more faded compared to the rest of his body.

An unforgettable visage in Casey's eyes, especially when it's the same exact prick who had conked him out in the first place. Feeling a rise of anger rather than fear, Casey braced his arms to show he meant business. Unsurprisingly the ghost freak didn't look intimidated in the slightest, instead giving a mocking chuckle.

"Riled up, are ya? Heheheheh. We can't be havin' any of that now."

"Don't antagonize him further, Eide! Just knock him out already!"

"Don't worry, I've got this handled." With a wave of his arms, the spook rose upward, his feet dangling over empty air. "I'll make sure to put him down properly this time."

[ **BLESSED ACOLYTE** ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1LUUQ4c7Wdk)

**EIDE**

Before Casey could register exactly what had just happened, the cultist shot forward like a burst of wind. His Gungeoneering instincts kicked in as he fired in a split second, but his target had relocated a few yards back and to his left before the bullet could reach him. This latest surprise left him vulnerable to a backhand across his left cheek that made him falter and spin partly around. He kept his balance, however, and turned and fired two rounds in rapid succession, only for them to split empty air.

"What?" Casey sputtered, struck by a sense of deja vu as the cultist reappeared several yards away to his right, looking down on him.

"Built up some resilience, eh?"

The transparent yokel then glided forward at a fast even pace, prompting Casey to fire before he got too close. His target vanished once more, only this time Casey was prepared, dodge-rolling to the right before getting a fist to the back of the head. Reorienting himself smoothly he took aim and shot a round, catching his attacker in the side.

"Gah! Damn punk!"

The cultist named Eide strafed away in retreat, allowing Casey to reload with a fresh clip that had inexplicably materialized in his hoodie's pocket. Once cocked and locked, he turned to face the hovering hick right as he pulled back an arm and swung to send out a… hail of red bullets of varying sizes, their luminescent shells lighting up the cave walls as they spread out. Without a pause in his momentum, Casey leapt over the bullets and rolled back onto his feet, firing off three of his own rounds to send his opponent float-fleeing to evade.

"Dammit Eide, watch where you're firing those things!" one of the observing cultists shouted out, which understandably peeved the one member actually doing something.

"How bout watching the exit and staying out of the way!"

Though none of the three bullets hit Eide, Casey didn't lose heart over it. Just like the High Priest, he thought, that bullet spread affirming his sense of familiarity with this would-be murderer's schtick. Tries to psych you out with the disappearing act, but nothing the delinquent hadn't had ample experience in dealing with. Just had to stay on his toes and never lose sight.

Rather than send another wave of bullets, the flighty cultist disappeared, then popped up somewhere else a split second before reappearing in a different spot, then did so several more times in rapid succession. Eventually he popped in right before Casey's face, thrusting a palm hard enough into his nose to waver his vision and make him taste copper. Damn sloppy, and right after getting himself stoked up! Eide reached forward to snatch his prey, but Casey fought through the pain and shot off two rounds wildly. A bullet caught Eide in the crook of his left elbow, resulting in the sickening pop of metal bursting through flesh.

"RAAAHH! Son of a #& *ing Bitch!"

The cursing cultist immediately zipped right the hell back from Casey, getting himself over to one side of the large pit.

"Could really use some back-up about now!"

Suddenly, a line of cultist sprung up from a row of random crates and rocks, armed with hunting rifles which they held to their shoulders.

"Aim for the limbs," instructed one of them right before they all fired. Only instead of super fast piercing slugs, Casey saw them as fairly sluggish red and white globs (it's insane just how honed his senses had become!). Casey leapt forward over the first line of rifle rounds, then backwards from the second line before kneeling and returning fire.

Two cultists fell before the rest took cover behind the crates, but no sooner had they hid then Eide teleported close to Casey's left. He turned, then felt the hard chop against his forearm, making his hand go slack and lose its grip on the M1911. Before he could make a grab for it, that same heavy hand planted itself around his neck once more, giving a good squeeze to force some air out of his lungs.

Gasping and choking, Casey could do little but squirm as he was lifted from the ground, this time carried along as Eide floated backwards.

"That's it from you. You're gettin' in that hole and appeasing Him."

Casey would have cursed himself out if he wasn't busy fighting for breath. After all that and this jackass was gonna do him in.

Only a few seconds left. He had to get free again; he couldn't give up now. As he beat uselessly against that solid arm, one his paws brushed against a familiar bulge in one of his hoodie pockets. Then he remembered: they always came in pairs. With his feet dangling inches from the edge of the hole, Casey activated his remaining Blank.

Another blinding shockwave of light and force broke Casey free from his captor and back onto solid ground. Eide was thrown back, clear over the hole and past the crates and other cultists that got jumbled about, then slammed hard with his back against the cave wall. His helmet came off as he bounced directly toward the pit. Casey saw the look of surprise and horror on his face before the abyss swallowed him without a sound.

Suddenly, the entire cavern started rumbling as rocks fell from the ceiling.

"Cave-in!"

The shout did little good, for right then the whole place shook fiercely and dropped a veritable avalanche of rubble on everything. Casey witnessed several crates and a few cultists get crushed before larger rocks came down around him and blotted out the light. Shortly after, everything came to a standstill.

Casey sat in silence for about a minute, getting air back into his lungs. After his breather, he pulled himself up and pushed aside one of the rocks that landed close to him. Stumbling out from his enclosure, he found the cave to be a total wreck. Most of the lanterns had been crushed, so there was hardly any illumination left. Still enough for him to see that the hole had been completely blocked up with several massive boulders, however. No way anyone's gonna be falling into that again without some serious digging equipment, or explosives.

To his right he spotted something on the ground, and taking a few tender steps over the rubble he came upon his dropped M1911. Squatting down to pick it up, he took a glance to where the exit archway was, and felt relief at seeing it unblocked. As he rose back up, a nearby groan grabbed his attention.

A few yards from him he saw a cultist sprawled out on the ground, crawling his way from a rock pile, the top of his helmet dented badly and the lamp smashed in. Turning himself onto his side, he gave a few ragged breaths, looking to the remains of the hole.

"You… you have no idea what you've just done. That was Possum Springs' very livelihood." He raised his head to scowl at Casey. "You goddamn idiot. Why did you have to fight it? You could have been useful for once."

Casey looked at his accuser, then began walking toward him slowly.

"What good was it to you? Is your life really that precious? We've watched you for years. You have done nothing with yourself; time and again just making trouble, doing drugs, leeching off others like a worthless bum. And now the one time some good can come from your miserable hide, you go and screw it up. Just like with your life."

The bastard just wouldn't shut up.

"You've got no aspirations, no real purpose. You just take up space and get in the way of upstandin' folk. Exactly like rank garbage."

The cultist felt a foot plant itself against his chest, pushing him onto his back. He grunted and glared anew, only to be looking past the barrel of a pistol and into a face of hard, raw hatred. This intimidating sight only garnered a weak, derisive chuckle.

"That's how it is. You're not only trash, you're a bonafide menace. Didn't take ya long to grow accustomed to killing your fellow man. Blood like yours is born for destruction. Well, go ahead and shoot. You've already damned this whole town; what's one more to the pile?"

Casey kept his gun trained, his heartbeat and the old man's breath filling his ears. No fear, no ounce of regret on the cultist's face. Only grim certainty over what was about to happen. What he _expected_ to happen.

In the time it takes to end a life, Casey made the decision to lower his gun, turn around, and walk away. He headed straight for the archway, paying no mind to other possible survivors. Over the threshold, through a ruined chapel the weary youth plodded without pause. Within a narrow tunnel he came upon some cart rails that led to the solemn red light of a freight elevator, active and waiting.

Slam of the gate and pull of the lever, and Casey ascended from the depths that were to be his resting place. Once at the top, he looked down and remembered the gun still clasped in his paw. Disgust flashed through his eyes before he dumped the weapon down the gap by the elevator. Unburdened, he continued his walk uninterrupted toward freedom.

A soft breeze brushed against his ruffled fur and whiskers upon emerging from the mine: the first breath of fresh air in his old body. The sky above still held traces of the setting sun, bathing the quarry around him in an ominous reddish orange hue. Casey wasn't affected by that, though, as he resumed walking. After a few yards of pebbles and uneven ground he came upon a rock embedded in the earth and came to a stop. He looked at it for several moments, then crouched down and sat against its flatmost side.

Casey Hartley, gunslinger triumphant, sole survivor of the Black Goat's tribute, stared blankly at the slope that would lead him to the rest of the world, arms resting atop his knees, lost to his thoughts. Minutes of idle thinking later, he leaned into his arms and cried. Whether they were tears of relief or despair, he didn't know. Only that he was alive, back in his own time, and very, very much aware of the kind of person he truly was.

* * *

**Thanks for playing!**

**You killed the past. The Gun—**

"Casey!"

"Huh?"

* * *

The shout snapped him from his grief, and raising his head he spotted something small and a bit round running down the slope. When it came to a stop two yards from him, he immediately recognized the ratty orange shirt, the clipped ear, and the large soul-consuming eyes.

"Mae?"

"Oh god, it really is you," she said with profound relief. "Are you okay?"

"...I'm fine, yeah." Casey replied mechanically, unable to hide the confusion in his tone. This was further confounded when another voice arose close by.

"Hold on, Mae! Wait for us!"

Looking past the stout kitty lass, Casey saw four other figures hurrying down the slope. At the head of the group was none other than Gregg in his usual leather jacket and jeans ensemble, followed by his boyfriend Angus and Bea weirdly enough, who was carrying a flashlight. And following behind at a more casual pace was… Germ? Yep: same hat, same jumpsuit, same blank expression. Casey was utterly stunned at seeing his friends in this godforsaken quarry.

As he tried to get his brain back on track, the motley group had descended and approached the rock. Once there, the alligator shined her beam on Mae.

"You seriously have to stop running off like that," Bea scolded her friend. "It's dark enough for you to trip over something."

"Forget that! I found Casey." Mae waved her arm over the befuddled young man as proof. When everyone looked at him, a dramatic gasp came out of Gregg.

"Holy crap, Casey! Are you okay, man?"

"He says he is," Mae answered.

"But is he really? I mean he's got blood on his face!"

Mae looked back to her dumbstruck friend, then remarked, "Oh shit you're right! Though, it kinda looks like a nosebleed?"

"Hi Casey," Germ said plainly, giving a wave as though they were passing by on the street. This had become too much for Casey to take just sitting down.

"What are you all doing here?"

"We came to rescue you, duh!" Gregg said excitedly, raising up his arms and showing off the crossbow he was carrying. As a matter of fact, Casey noticed that everyone but Germ were loaded with backpacks and satchels. Even Mae had a baseball bat holstered on her back like some zombie outbreak survivalist, or something like that. Things were already weird enough without making those kinds of comparisons.

"Seems he rescued himself, by the looks of it," Angus pointed out, which caused Gregg to lower both his arms and his excitement.

"Oh, yeah. It seems that way, Cap'n."

"How did you escape? Did you run when they weren't looking?"

"No, I broke out," Casey said to Mae in a low, shaken voice. "They had me tied up in a bag, wanted to dump me in a hole. But I got free and… fought my way out."

"Damn. With what, your bare hands?"

"No, Gregg. I had a gun, took some out."

"Oh man, we totally missed out on the action. I'm seriously bummed out by this!" Gregg whined, eliciting a stern cough from Bea. "Uh but you're out here safe, and that's what's most important. Even though we didn't get to see you do it."

Like any responsible adult, Bea merely dismissed Gregg's words with an eye roll, then asked a more pertinent question to keep things on track.

"How many of them were left when you got out?"

"I dunno. There was a cave-in; bunch of them got crushed. The hole they tried to throw me in got closed up, too."

"Well that's incredibly convenient," Angus said. "Saves us even more trouble."

"But whoever's left might be on their up. We should get out of here."

"You're right, Bea." Looking to Casey, Mae said, "We can talk more about this after we get to the car."

"Car?"

"I'm parked just outside the woods." Bea nodded in the direction they came from. "Are you good to walk?"

"I can carry you," Angus offered, but Casey carefully stood up.

"I'm good. Just needed a rest."

Mae nodded approvingly. "Awesome. Now let's ditch this hellhole."

"Yeah! Let's Go Go GO!"

The party began moving at Gregg's urging, however Mae noticed Germ heading in the opposite direction.

"Germ?"

"You go ahead without me," he said in his usual neutral tone.

"Are you sure?" Gregg asked, getting a nod in reply.

"We can't all fit in the car, and my house is close by. Also, there's something personal I need to do."

The look the bird made left no room for disagreement, something that Gregg understood perfectly.

"Okay. Let's meet up tomorrow at the Party Barn."

"Sure. Later." As the group began leaving again, Germ said, "Oh, Casey?" Having grabbed the tom's attention, he added, "Glad you're safe."

"...I appreciate that, man."

Farewells said, Casey and the rest resumed the walk up the slope. Once they were over the crest, Germ walked ahead and came to a stop before the entrance to the mines. He simply stood there, staring into the darkness while silently pulling out a cylindrical object from his jumpsuit. The gleam that filled his eyes was matched only by the flame of the lighter in his other hand.

* * *

**Thanks for playing!**

**You killed the past. The Gungeon remains...**


	7. Afterw(a)rds

"So, how exactly did you find out about the Gungeon?"

Thirty minutes had passed since Casey was taken from the abandoned mines in the backseat of Bea's car. During the ride back to town, his friends explained that they had learned of the cult's existence and activities some time ago, and that they had planned on rescuing him the day he originally went missing. They also gave him the lowdown about how the murder cult was basically a bunch of old guys that made sacrifices to an eldritch horror in the mines to curry its favor in preserving Possum Springs. Casey naturally accepted this explanation without question; no surprise after all the other weird shit he'd been through.

Bea then offered to take him to the hospital or even back to his place. He declined, saying he'd much rather have something to eat. Thus, the decision was made to convene at Pastabilities, where the five friends sat around a table that offered ample elbow room and dined on some fairly good faux-Italian cuisine. It came off as utterly surreal to the scruffy tom, having dinner with friends when not even an hour ago he was in a desperate gunfight for his life. As though there weren't bodies lying in the deep dark he was responsible for. Or that he was told something wholly undeniable. His appetite wasn't affected one bit, though, so as Casey treated his restored body to its first (semi)proper meal, discussion inevitably turned toward the Gungeon.

The matter of his friends' awareness of its existence was a moot point. They had to have had some prior knowledge of his whereabouts; how else would they have known to go looking for him at that exact spot, within that general timespan, when for all intents and purposes he had disappeared without a trace? Still, he was curious as to the means by which they came to learn of it.

"It started as some rumor passed around by this old guy," Gregg explained, quite composed after having given his old buddy about fifty hugs since coming back from the woods. "A place to go to undo your past. Bogus-sounding kid stuff, only made slightly interesting with the inclusion of guns."

"Naturally no one bought into that garbage." Swiveling her eye around, Bea added, "Save for a certain _someone_ in our group."

"I was a total trailblazer!" Mae exclaimed happily, arms raised with a smile on her face, completely bereft of shame. Seeing that random burst of enthusiasm from her nearly made Casey almost want to chuckle, even cry.

"Troublemaker, to be correct," Bea said teasingly. However, Mae was quick to lower her arms and resume her previous casual expression.

"But seriously, with all the bad, dumb shit I've done, I thought it'd be worth a shot to look into. And I had *literally* nothing else to do at the time. Boy, who'd have thought I'd stumble onto the jackpot of 'rumors that actually turned out to be legit'?"

"Wound up dragging us along for the ride as well," Angus said, followed by Gregg slamming the table and saying,

"And a hell of a ride it was! Woo! Bullets for days!"

"Not to mention exhausting. And repetitive," Bea further added, oblivious to the floored look of surprise on Casey's face.

"Wait, _all_ of you have been through the Gungeon?" Four nods answered his query. "So then, that means you all…"

"Killed our pasts? Effin' right we did!" Mae said proudly. "I stopped myself from bashing in a kid's face."

"I saved some sheep *and* got to relive my childhood. Well, that second one wasn't *as* great as the first, but still."

"I had some abusive parents. Put them in their place when it mattered most."

"I took care of some family issues as well, though nothing as extreme as with Angus."

"Heheheheh, you hear that, Cap'n? You're totally extreme."

"Only when the situation calls for it, Bug."

"Wow…" Casey slumped back in his seat, dumbfounded. "I figured Mae would go through with something like this, but not all of you. Did Germ go in as well?"

"We're not sure," Mae admitted. "He never mentioned anything about it, and he never asked us. But who knows; it's Germ, after all."

"Certainly wasn't dragged along like the rest of us," Angus reiterated, adjusting his glasses before taking a sip of cola.

"You're making it sound like it was a bad thing, Angus. But it was worth it, right?" Mae asked. "I mean, it's the reason I got into therapy by the time I was fifteen, Casey. If I hadn't gone to the Gungeon, I would've ended being angry and miserable without knowing why, making stupid-ass mistakes and screwing up the lives of me, my parents, and Andy Cullen. But now I'm on meds, everyone's fine, and I'm still in college!"

"I never even had the chance to go to college in my… old life? Alternate past? One of those," Bea said. "I also didn't have as positive an outlook for my future for a number of very unpleasant reasons. But, this time around, I fixed things up so it's not as grim. Also, having Mae around helped a little."

"And now we're College Sisters!" Mae tried reaching up to wrap an arm around Bea's shoulders, but her short stature forced her to settle with half-hugging the crocodilian's waist. "Mayday and BeeBee: The Queens of English and Psychology! Representin' Possum Springs and showing those snooty rich kids how to keep it real!"

"Mae, the most *real* thing you did was climb a bunch of statues and binge on pizza during midterms."

"And I didn't throw up until _after_ taking all the exams. That's pure fortitude there."

"No, that's just you, Mae."

That time Casey did chuckle, as did the two gal pals. Though he knew firsthand how practically inseparable they were, he somehow felt that they had never always been this close. Like two sets of memories banging against each other. No doubt caused by all the time travel BS.

"Plus, because we all went back, we got the chance to get together to come save you," Gregg said. "Like, originally, it was months before we found out that you had been killed, and there was no way me, Mae, or anyone was gonna let that happen again. Although, you wound up saving yourself just fine, so the whole rescue operation was a bust. But it's the thought that counts, and we were totally ready to eff up some dudes to save you."

"Yeah, I appreciate that, Gregg. All of you."

After a comfortable silence, Mae then posed the question, "So how did _you_ find out about the Gungeon, Casey?"

"Yeah, I've been wondering that too," Angus said. "That old man didn't come here until months after you disappeared. Did you hear it somewhere else before that?"

"It's uh, it's pretty weird how I learned of it." Now for things to get awkward. "I'm pretty sure it's the same old guy you know, only he… talked to me after I was dead."

Four sets of eyes looked at him blankly, either from surprise or disbelief, as everything instantly hushed. Yup, definitely awkward. The unpleasant silence didn't last too long, however, as Gregg broke it with a fitting, "Dude…"

"For real?"

"It's all blurry as to where we were exactly," Casey told Bea. "He just offered me a chance to… redo things, and then put me in the Gungeon. I even got a body to use since, I guess, you can't do it as a ghost or something?"

Another brief silence, which again was broken by Gregg with a very apt, "That's frickin' crazy."

"So then, ghosts are actually real? As well as an afterlife of some kind? In our world, specifically?" Angus asked, genuinely curious if a tad unsettled by this revelation.

"But if you went into the Gungeon," Mae started, unperturbed the least by what had been spoken. "If you went there, that means just now, you had…?"

"It's how I got away from those psychos," Casey said. "I woke up with two Blanks and a gun right before they could off me. That's what I used to get out of there."

"That would certainly explain how you got away in this instance," Bea surmised. "Though it's concerning that you had to die first before you could do all that."

"But that doesn't matter now; you're back in the land of the living, dude! You're still with us!" The little greaser caved in to emotion once more and practically dove to provide another patented Gregg Hug to his buddy, who didn't feel entirely comfortable with himself in the moment.

"Y-yeah, I am. But I… killed, people. People that are from here."

"It was in self-defense, though," Mae assured him without missing a beat. "They tried to kill you first."

"They're also not the kind of people to lose sleep over," Angus put it bluntly. "For everything they've done, I wouldn't have hesitated."

"Totally extreme. Like I told ya, Angus." The bear blushed at his boyfriend's little tease.

"We can talk about the Gungeon and the murder cult some other time," Mae offered. "Right now it's good friends, good food, and good not-as-effed-up-as-before lives."

"I guess so," Casey nodded, taking up a half-eaten breadstick. "Kinda need some time to get used to being back in boring-ass Possum Springs."

"We'll get you grounded," Bea said confidently, while Gregg gave Casey a supportive pat on the shoulder.

"You can count on it!"

Mae was about to say something appropriately cheesy, but stopped when she noticed something at the other end of the restaurant. Standing by the exit was a tall figure in a familiar weathered red tweed coat and moth-eaten scarf, clutching a withered black cane to their side with a thick brown-gloved hand. A grin formed beneath the frayed wide-brimmed hat just before the man slipped out the door. The petite feline instantly felt antsy.

"Hey, I'm gonna go, uh, pee real quick. Be back in a sec."

"Sure Mae. Just don't slip."

"It was just the *one* time, Bea. Geez. Anyway, be right back."

Having excused herself, Mae left the table, then quickly but stealthily made for the exit. Stepping out into the warm summer night, she looked both ways over the desolate road, squinting against the heavy shadows cast by the streetlights. Her ears picked up someone's singing in the direction of the Snack Falcon, and immediately she leapt from the steps and hit the sidewalk running.

She ran past Gregg and Angus' apartment, the bar, and the Snack Falcon before catching the old man casually strolling by the Clik Clak.

"Hey, hold up!" she called out, causing her pursuee to stop his walking and cane-clacking at the outer edge of the diner's corner light fixture. Mae caught up and came to a stop beneath the light as he turned around, giving her the same smile that greeted her outside the woods in another lifetime.

"Well well, if it isn't Margaret."

"Okay, it's still freaky how you just know my actual name. And that you're spying on us like some creep."

"My apologies then, Mae. I just happened to be passing by and thought I heard some familiar voices, and lo and behold I see you sitting among your friends. Which means that you have won the Gungeon's prize."

"Yeah yeah it was a real blast. Listen, you brought my friend Casey to the Gungeon as well."

"Indeed I did. A very eager Gungeoneering candidate he was."

"But he says you showed him after he was *dead*. What are you exactly? Are you some kind of ghost?"

"Au contraire, my dear. I'm just as real as you or any of your other friends." He chuckled warmly, but Mae was still on edge.

"Uh-huh. Doesn't really explain what you are."

"To be honest, I'm merely an old traveler at heart, performing a service to the master of the Gungeon on the side. Spreading word of its existence, delivering fresh up-and-coming Gungeoneers. You could consider me a recruiter of sorts, though I like to fancy myself more a resources contractor." Looking a little more serious, he then asked, "Though, why should it matter to you as to what I am?"

"I dunno. Just one last mystery to be solved? I mean, wouldn't _you_ be curious to know more about a guy who can take people to a crazy-ass gun dungeon and talk to the dead, apparently? And who also dresses in *way* too many layers. Why you aren't sweating like crazy under all that is a mystery in of itself."

"I see. Well to answer that last one, I just happen to have a ludicrously high heat tolerance. As for the rest, is it really so mysterious in light of everything else you have seen? Living ammunition, aliens, spirits, a dragon made entirely out of guns, a gun that can alter the very course of time itself. Is someone like me harder to accept without explanation than any of those?"

Mae pondered that a moment, then replied, "I guess not. Probably not that big a deal in that context. I just found it weird you can actually talk to dead people."

"Were you hoping I could speak to someone on your behalf?" he said half teasingly, half genuinely. Mae looked aside, then shook her head.

"Nah. Maybe at one point, but I've made peace with that a long time ago. Or about as much peace as realistically possible. So I'm just bugging ya out of curiosity."

"Spur of the moment thing, hmm? Would explain why none of your friends have followed."

"Yeah, I still have this habit of running off without telling them," the cat admitted a bit ashamedly.

"That's no good. You and your companions have had quite the shared experience that few else can boast about. You should relate, relish and cherish those thrilling moments together."

"Yeah I totally should. Haven't gotten all the details from Bea and Angus about their runs, and Casey probably did a bunch of kickass stuff in his."

"There you have it. Now, if you have nothing further to ask, please pardon me."

As he started to turn, Mae yelled out, "Hey wait, that's actually something that's been bugging the hell out of me about all this."

Turning back, the gentleman asked, "That being?"

"The point of the Gungeon is to keep The Gun That Can Kill The Past safe, but doesn't telling people about it *and* sending them there completely defeat the purpose?"

The elder looked upon the wily lass amusedly, then chuckled. "Very astute of you, young lady."

"I'm not some kid, you know; I turned twenty a few months ago."

"Quite. Still, you have touched on a rather curious state of affairs. It is true that the Gungeon serves as a vault to preserve The Gun That Can Kill The Past. But, it is one that thrives on the spirit of battle. Its inhabitants, its inner workings require excitement to stay alive; fresh challengers keep it functional. Not to mention, it makes for quite the rousing spectacle, especially when hot-blooded youths are pitted against so many dangers."

"Spectacle? You mean, it's being watched, like reality TV?"

"Sort of, but not by conventional means. After all, in a universe so vast, mysterious and terrible, you can never tell who or *what* is watching."

"Creepy. (Though I kinda already knew that, but whatever, still creepy)"

"In summation, I merely send along fresh souls to liven up those catacombs, while at the same time offering a legitimate chance for redemption to those who are interested. The fact that the end result brings benefit to the Gungeoneer fills this old heart with warmth. Doubly so when I see it firsthand, as in the case of you and your friends."

"Okaaay. All kinds of weird stuff you just said there. But I guess, thank you for the help? I mean, we probably would have managed fine without redoing the past, but not everyone gets that kind of chance. So yeah, thanks a bunch."

"You're very welcome. Having said all that, I believe I've tapped enough candidates from this humble town. I must depart to seek fresh talent elsewhere. They can't all come from the same place, after all."

"Oh, alright. Well, good luck with that. I'll tell my friends that you said goodbye and all."

"That would be very outstanding of you. But, tis my last farewell. May you make the most out of your new path."

"Definitely," Mae nodded as the fellow turned back around. However, he turned his head aside and said,

"Oh, one last thing: be mindful of your friend Casey. He just had a good hard look at his life's worth, and his own deficiencies. Brushes with death tend to shake people up badly, particularly the young and directionless. Be there to keep him upright."

"I will. Thanks again, old man."

"My pleasure. Now if you will excuse me, I have a train to catch."

With that, the traveler resumed walking the lonely sidewalk, singing in cadence to the tapping of his cane.

_Oh how the gentle wind,_

_Beckons through the leaves._

_As Autumn, colors, Fall~..._

Real out-of-season tune to be singing, Mae thought. Yet another unanswered oddity, though that could be chalked up to the eccentricity of the elderly. In any event, Mae watched the heavily-dressed gent stroll farther into the darkness until he practically vanished, replaced by a haunting whistling that filled the air. For a moment she was curious as to where exactly he was going, and who or what else would wind up being plunged into the trials of the Gungeon. But it was but a moment, for with a dismissing shrug she turned around and jogged back the way she came.

By the milk-lighted moon, Mae hurried to rejoin her dear friends and continue forging ahead into an unknown, but promising future.

* * *

_So concludes another series of success stories made possible by the awesome power of the One True Gun, which in turn further prolongs its legend within civilization's collective memory. Still, where there are individuals willing to forsake their present lives for one more attempt to make things right, The Gun That Can Kill The Past will never be forgotten. But willingness to cast oneself into unending danger for redemption is one thing. Only the skilled, the patient and—above all else—the persistent can regard themselves true masters of fate, for they alone choose to…_

[ **ENTER THE GUNGEON** ](https://youtu.be/xZzWiFjsbM0?t=66)

(Now you may rap in full)

* * *

**YOU WON**

You have killed the Past

**KILLED BY**

Nobody. You did great!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you much for reading! Feel free to leave a comment: I love feedback.


End file.
